


ABCs Of Lucien

by CypressArtemis



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Gen, Multi, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-09-15 10:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16931424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CypressArtemis/pseuds/CypressArtemis
Summary: Alphabet prompt. Exploring the backstory of Lucien.





	1. Chapter 1

**Title** : ABCs Of Lucien  
**By** : CypressArtemis  
**Summary** : Alphabet prompt.  
  
**A is for Assassin**

* * *

  
Should anyone have asked him years before he was initiated into the brotherhood, what he wanted to be, the word assassin wouldn't have even been a forefront in his mind. It's scarce to think at one time Lucien was relatively poor in coin but full of noble intent, cultivated by a loving mother and a dedicated uncle.  
  
Farming had been the ambition in his youthful years. Working the fields with his uncle as his mother kept a watchful eye from her garden of alchemy ingredients and herbs. It was grueling work, but honest, and despite his uncle's struggle it kept food on the table and a roof over their heads.

His late teens was around the time he lost everything in a succession of despairing events, one after another with no reprieve in sight. It began with a cough that no one paid any mind to. His mother had gotten simple sicknesses before and this was nothing abnormal, at least not at first.

It started small. Just a sparse tickle here and there. It never slowed her work and she smiled that joyful grin until the very end. She passed in the early dawn during the hotter part of the year as he sat beside her bedside. The shallow hacking and thick mucus slowly suffocating the last remnants of air, sapping the life from her tired body.

They buried her beneath the tree at the far corner of the property. There was no money for a gravestone and so her grave remained unmarked save for the wildflowers and extra herbs Lucien would clip from her garden and lay amongst disturbed soul in remembrance.

His uncle was the next to go.

Bandits in search of food and septims had marched upon the farmhouse in the late evening. Being so far down the road from the Imperial City, guards never patrolled that far out and the attack went unnoticed until Lucien wandered solely into town, more than a little bloodied and spirit broken as his uncle's body lying cold amongst the field of withering corn stalks. The old house burnt beyond repair and smoldering into a smoking ash pile by the time guards arrived to investigate the accusations.

Lucien buried his uncle beside his mother before salvaging the only remaining belongings he could find from the untouched barn, setting off to leave the shambles of a destroyed life behind.

"Bitter but strong," is what the dockmaster at Anvil had called him when he slunk across the sodden wood in search of work. Any work, he didn't care. He was tired of sleeping in the dirt and surviving on scraps with no place to belong. The docks seemed like a logical choice and though the man didn't much care for the angered youth, ships needed loaded and there was plenty of openings lately.

It took weeks of labor and meager pay before Lucien was able to afford a decent set of clothes. Ones that weren't frayed and tattered, permanently stained with earth and blood, and when he was finally able to rent a room at the local inn his spirit lifted slightly. It was almost surreal to feel the comfort of a bed again, to have a hot meal in the evenings, to crack jokes with the few men that worked the docks alongside him.

Slowly it began to feel like a home.

In retrospect getting comfortable with the boss's daughter was probably his biggest mistake, but at the time he was young, and she was about the most gorgeous thing he had ever seen with her honey hair and doe brown eyes. At the time he might have been bold enough to call it love, but in the end she cast him aside for a richer man that her father approved of and for the first time Lucien felt his first sting of heartbreak.

Somehow her father had learned of their tryst, by her own admission or rumors amongst the workers, he wasn't sure but the man had angrily insisted he seek employment elsewhere. His once lover refusing to acknowledge his existence, turning her nose up at him in the streets with shamed eyes. His heart lurched every time he saw the golden band upon her finger that reminded him of the way her face looked when she told him she was never to see him again. That his love was worthless in comparison to something so common as money.

He remembers packing his things and heading to the main gate when the man seemingly manifested out of nowhere. The husband. Some rich Breton in his middle years, drunk and angry, yelling in the streets about a lowly dockworker bedding his wife.

Lucien had made to push past him, to leave this place and never return, but the husband had shoved him callously into the wall and Lucien felt his back aching as the stones dug into his skin through his shirt. The husband's thick stubby fingers curled around his throat, a drunken sneer twisting his lips menacingly.

He doesn't remember what the man was spitting out as he clamped down on Lucien's windpipe, but he does remember the sudden animosity that raged inside himself. All the loathing and pain locked away burning to the surface until the husband lay sprawled on his back in the darkened streets. There was a soreness emanating from split knuckles as Lucien landed punches to the man's face, cracking his nose and busting out teeth. The throbbing in his shoulders from the momentum of his irate movements made him falter but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop, because there was no way the pain he was inflicting was worse than what this man had done to him.

Eventually Lucien shoved himself away in a stumbling mess of panic. He grabbed his bag from the dingy streets and glanced wildly about the desolate roads in search of prying eyes. The unconscious man struggling for breath through a busted bloody face that would never heal right. Shoving the gate doors open Lucien walked as casually as he could muster past the guards before fleeing down the nearest path.

In Bruma he had an apprenticeship with a local blacksmith where he learned the basics of maintaining and forging an assortment of weaponry. The frozen air made the city almost unbearable but the crackled flames of the forge made going to work something to look forward to.

Months after his arrival, in the late hours of the day for near on a week, a strange man began to saunter through the old door. He was ghostly pale to the point it was unnerving and was always wrapped in dark robes. His gaunt cheeks gave his cheekbones added height, thin lips set in a permanent uninterested line, his sunken eyes a disturbing glow of red. The first few days the stranger didn't speak a word to him. Simply perused the stock and saw himself out moments before closing, leaving Lucien more than a bit uneasy.

Without fail the man returned after sunset, only this time her presented a rather beautiful piece of ebony weaponry to be sharpened. He was even more sinister up close but exchanged pleasantries in the dignity of upperclassmen and subtle hand gestures, his voice calming in a smooth almost monotone manner.

Lucien found himself wishing after a few days of commonplace visits and picking up his dagger that the stranger hadn't made a point to speak with him. His subconscious was leery. Everything about this man seemed off and he spoke of things that made him almost irritated.

Perplexity slowly twisted into paranoia and Lucien was sure the stranger knew of what happened in Anvil. Was sure he was here to exact revenge on the husband's behalf and was taunting him, studying him and his routine.

Running had become a cowardly habit over the past two years and on the night the man didn't return to the shop Lucien awaited closing before booking it down the road to his room at the inn. He half expected the pale man to be waiting for him, but there was no one there when he entered and everything was exactly as he'd left it. Still he decided not to take chances and gathered his belongings into a pack before stepping out the main gates once again.

Bravil was a miserable town and Lucien hated it. Hated the slumped decrepit little shack of a house that he was renting but working odd jobs for the Thieves' guild and using his alchemy knowledge his mother had taught him, he was making a decent amount of coin. He probably would have been gone from there sooner if it weren't for a particular little bookkeeper across the way. They met by pure chance and he quickly found himself smitten with her. Her golden hair and emerald eyes brought him a peace he hadn't known since before his mother passed.

For the first time in years Lucien felt happy, living in shambles as he was, but when he finally worked up the nerve to propose marriage and leaving the dirty town behind for a better life his affections were again cut short. Returning from an odd job of stealing a particular necklace from a wealthy family had only taken a few days, but it was long enough to come back to a freshly dug grave and the whispers of a beggar finding her lifeless body in the streets after a burly Nord had attempted to rob her but in frustration stabbed her for having so little.

As Lucien stared at the grave he knew he couldn't find it in himself to stay past nightfall and left swiftly, caring not for anything he left behind. He could replace what little he lost but he would never replace her.

Leyawiin is where he finally found him. The blonde drunk of a Nord too intoxicated to hear him coming and too stupid to know to run. Having only seen 21 winters, Lucien wasn't exactly experienced in fighting or weapons. What little knowledge he had came in the form of his apprenticeship back in Bruma. His uncle had known farming and nothing more. Not even magic.

So it was in his favor the Nord was too intoxicated to put up much of a fight, and as his body slumped into the muddled sand by the Niben river Lucien smiled down at him with a satisfaction that felt like any other mundane accomplishment. His soiled boot kicking him for good measure and to ensure he would never get up again.

He could have ran, like he had so many times before, but instead he remained in the city looking for work and smirking when the news floated over town of the Nord's death. It was late at the alchemy shop not two weeks later that the pale man returned, this time his thin lips turned in an upward smile of peeking fangs as he greeted the young murderer.

Lucien knew that he should be afraid, but instead he steeled himself and bluntly asked this pale stranger what he wanted or to leave him be.

"Vicente Valtieri," was all he responded with his fanged smirk and sinister glint in his ruby eyes. A black gloved hand extended and Lucien was compelled to engage in the handshake as the pale Breton continued. "I have a proposition for you. If you're interested."

Cheydinhal was Lucien's last and only home as he donned the void robes, learning and mastering death under the guidance of Vicente until there was no longer anymore ranks to climb. He transformed from a clumsy youth to a graceful gentleman within his new family, his mentor prideful with his handiwork.

Lucien traveled the map, leaving a swath of artful death in his wake. When the Speaker had died, appointing him in her place had been the most obvious choice as his charming nature eased people into vulnerable contentment. His dedication was admirable and his impaired sense of feeling made him dangerous.

Lucien may not have wanted to be an assassin but in truth he was perfect for it.

* * *

 

**Author's Note** : I have been reading a lot of Alphabet prompts lately and it really got me thinking on my favorite assassin. 


	2. B Is For Bookworm

Title: ABCs Of Lucien  
By: CypressArtemis  
Summary: Alphabet prompt.

B is for Bookworm

Lucien rather enjoyed reading in his spare time and with an extensive variety of bound pages to peruse across Tamriel he never lacked something to consume his interests. He had a penchant for poetry and mystery above all else. Something to challenge his mind or fill him with fond memories.

He scarcely remembers a time he didn't spend his evenings buried in scrawled pages, or he refused to, but at one point he must have considering he was near illiterate in his youth. As a farmer's nephew, poor, and needed at home to work he didn't receive the same education as other, richer, children in the city.

His mother was the brains of the family but even she could barely get through a paragraph in the local paper. Everything she knew was memorized or scrawled on parchment in fractured sentences that made little sense to anyone but her. By the time Lucien was a teenager he knew just enough to write his name.

When he met Jocelyn he hadn't been in the bookstore for reading material. He was tracking a lead for the local thieves, a rich uppity redguard that had led him into that store. He isn't sure now if he curses the man or praises him. His Jocelyn had been smart and beautiful and he loved her in a way he never loved another, before or after.

He remembers her soft voice as they sat beside the fireplace in the decrepit shack of a home he could afford. She knew he couldn't read and even when she tried to teach him, he paid little mind, because nothing was more soothing than listening to her gentle voice carry through the room in poesy.

Still he had managed to learn a significantly more amount of words than he left home with but not enough to call himself literate. What little he could decipher came from memorizing letters and Lucien now recognized author names on book covers when he was out on jobs, bringing them home to his beloved to watch her surprised smiles.

When she died his desire to learn went with her. There was no longer an incentive to care, no longer reason to salvage books left abandoned. No purpose to walk into bookstores or stop for the boy selling papers on the street.

Not until Vicente came along.

After he entered sanctuary, Vicente would spend hours in the late evenings coaching him through words, making him write out the alphabet until his hand cramped. His penmanship was less than stellar then, but over time he found the flow of the pen soothing and his handwriting transformed from a horrendous scrawling to elegant slants and sweeping loops.

Lucien found himself more eager to browse the bookshelves in the common room and soon he was reading through entire passages without assistance from Vicente. In a way it felt she was with him again in those moments, when he flipped the pages and traversed the ink with brown eyes, the voice in his head never really sounding like his own thoughts but her voice reading along with him.

He doesn't like to dwell too long on the memory of Jocelyn, but every now and then he'll sit by the fire and read aloud the poems she once read to him and remember a time long ago when her voice was all he needed.


End file.
